


I Love You, Aziraphale! A Glory So Ineffable, It Could Only Be Real

by LeilaKalomi



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (sort of), Alternate Universe - Prison, Crowley Was Not Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Crowley's Fall (Good Omens), Goromcom, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Pre-Fall Crowley (Good Omens), Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:22:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23638270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeilaKalomi/pseuds/LeilaKalomi
Summary: Zadkiel just wants a little glory. Is that so bad?Turns out it is, and now he's a demon, with a snake form and all. And they call him Crawly, which just sounds gross.But maybe it's for the best, because this way he can be on Earth with Aziraphale. (Best to change his name and form first, so Aziraphale doesn't have to know about that.)Then there's just the slight problem of the antichrist and the coming apocalypse, which he can totally deal with. Without having to tell Aziraphale exactly what they're doing. It should be no problem...as long as they don't get caught.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 42
Kudos: 96
Collections: Good Omens Rom Com Event





	1. Zadkiel

**Author's Note:**

> This is a very, very loose adaptation of I Love You Philip Morris! for the Romcom event, but you don't need to have seen the movie to understand the fic!

Zadkiel was the last of the archangels. He was given as his domain mercy, freedom, benevolence, and forgiveness. These things, like Zadkiel, often feel like an afterthought.

For instance, Michael has legions to command, a sword to wield, a rank. Gabriel acts as the Almighty’s hands. Raphael nurtures her creation. Uriel coaxes it into devotion and service through creation of its own.

Zadkiel just sort of watches and waits for something to go wrong. Then he fights with Raziel about how to handle it. It’s exhausting. He usually loses.

He tries his hardest always. He knows that he is good. Kind and patient and creative and loving. Just as he was made to be. But it’s not good enough. No one exalts him, the way they do the others. No one holds assemblies of the whole host and displays him while he glows and preens. And Zadkiel can glow and preen with the best of them. He’s even practiced. But who would know it?

Oh, no, it’s always Uriel and the songs and art she had invented and would someday share with humanity. _O, Uriel, great Uriel, let us sing thy wonder_ , the host chimes in harmony.

Ugh.

Or Michael. Michael, the fucking Highest of the Angels. It’s _literally_ her title. I mean, _really?_ Is that _necessary?_

And fucking Gabriel. Gets to be. Everywhere. Zadkiel has seen the Plan. Gabriel this, and Gabriel that.

And Raphael. Oh, Raphael, yes, of course, because he’s going to save a bunch of humans from some plague or other. _And_ he gets to be invoked by a snake. Which seems pretty badass, yeah, because snakes seem cool and all. But whatever.

Even Raziel. There’s a definite awe factor there. She can see things the rest of them can’t like she’s sort of in charge of them in a way. Even Michael gives her a wide berth.

No one ever mentions Zadkiel.

Frustrated, Zadkiel asks Her if there isn’t some other way he could contribute, if maybe there wasn’t something he could do that would be a little more valued. She says he is prideful. Zadkiel doesn’t mean to be prideful. But he doesn’t see what’s wrong with wanting a little praise. Sometimes.

* * *

So, one day, he finds a store of starstuff and builds a nebula.

 _See?_ He asks Her. He chooses his next words carefully: _Is it not beautiful?_

_**My child. You are disobedient.** _

_What? Hey. I just wanted to make something you’d like._

_**That is not your role. Yours is not glory.** _

_Why do we have to have roles? Why can’t we just sort of putter around and see what we’re good at, what we like? I know I did a good job with the nebula. Lucifer even said. And he’s your Morning Star. You like Lucifer. Everyone likes Lucifer._

There’s an uncomfortable silence after that.

* * *

“What do you think I should do?” Zadkiel asks Lucifer.

“Did you like making the nebula?” Lucifer asks.

“Uh, yeah. Obviously. Did I—what do you think?—of _course_ I liked making the nebula. What, you think I want to just sit around on a dais all day and wait for someone to make a mistake so I can try to convince everyone to forgive them? I am absolutely _losing_ my shit around here.”

Lucifer laughs. “Then I think you should keep doing what you like. And don’t worry about Her. She does that sometimes. The going silent. She hasn’t spoken to me for a long while now. So I make my own rules, you know? Bring my own light.”

“I like that,” Zadkiel says. “Lightbringer.”

* * *

In retrospect, it should have been pretty obvious that that wasn’t going to turn out well, Zadkiel thinks. He’s been sitting in a cell for a long while. A _long_ while. He knows Lucifer was the first arrested and dispatched: Everyone watched Michael deal with _that_. No one was interested in Zadkiel’s pleas for mercy. Raziel just shook her head instead of arguing and looked sad. Gabriel grinned and said, _You’re next, pretty boy_. And Zadkiel had opened his mouth to say that _Gabriel_ was one to call anybody else _pretty boy_ , but then there were all these low ranking angels he didn’t know swarming them and pulling him away like they knew he wouldn’t put up a difficult fight (and he was so annoyed that they were right), and then there had been some kind of _war_ , and after that all of Lucifer’s friends were gone wherever he’d gone and they couldn’t figure out what to do with Zadkiel, whether he ought to be sent after them too, or kept here and dealt with some other way. And so he’s still here. Waiting. There are a couple of them like that in here. They let them socialize together sometimes, but in the end it’s always back to their little cells. Zadkiel, as an archangel, has one to himself.

They are allowed into the library. Well, not the main library, a little room off to the side of it, though, where they’ve carefully screened all the reading materials. Zadkiel doesn’t spend a lot of time there, but he goes sometimes. Not much else to do. It’s there that he sees the new prisoner. A blond angel, with short, curly hair fuzzed up around his head and a wide-eyed expression. He’s not much shorter than Zadkiel, and he’s heftier, more substantial, but there’s something about him that seems small, makes Zadkiel angry that he’s here. Someone ought to protect him, he thinks.

He steps up.

“Hello, there,” he says. He doesn’t like the way his voice comes out. Unctuous and briny, like he wants something unsavory, something he ought not be allowed to have. And isn’t that the story of his life?

“Hello!” says the little angel. He looks just slightly wary, eyes darting up at Zadkiel and away again. It does something to Zadkiel’s insides, making his chest seem to flutter. That’s when Zadkiel realizes who this is. Aziraphale. The Guardian of the Eastern Gate. Heaven’s wayward principality, who’d let a demon into the Garden of Eden, which had ended with the humans sinning and banished and locked into an eternal struggle between Good and Evil. Zadkiel heaves a huge sigh at the memory of that discussion. It hadn’t seemed like a very good Plan from the beginning, Zadkiel had argued. Not fair. I mean, hadn’t Heaven essentially _made_ evil and then acted like it was an abomination? But Uriel had said there was beauty in it and Michael had rolled her eyes and Gabriel had mimicked “not _fair_ ,” in a baby voice, and Raziel had scowled. So he’d shut up. Eventually.

But now they’re punishing this one just for playing his role? Oh, fuck that.

“Aziraphale, right?” Zadkiel says. “We’ve all heard about you.”

“Oh,” says Aziraphale. “Oh, dear.”

Zadkiel has to backtrack that one pretty quickly. But it’s fine, it’s easy. All he has to do is remind him he’s Zadkiel (Aziraphale had frowned, “Zadkiel? Oh, right! The archangel? Zadkiel is an archangel, right?” and Zadkiel had gritted his teeth against the ignominy of not being recognized and agreed.) and he’s the archangel of mercy and he’s in trouble himself and hardly in a position to judge _were he so inclined_.

Aziraphale relaxes. “Oh,” he says.

“Oh. Yeah,” says Zadkiel. “So, um…It’s all right. You’re good. You don’t belong here. They’ll put you back to work. I know it.” He rests his hand on the principality’s arm and steps closer.

Aziraphale beams at him. He relaxes so much that he’s suddenly leaning against Zadkiel, so Zadkiel puts his arms around him, and he’s soft and warm like the sun’s touch is lingering on him.

“What did _you_ do?” Aziraphale says. His eyes look starkissed, his expression full of awe. So Zadkiel tells him what he wants to hear:

“Well, I uh, I hung the stars.”

* * *

There has been more talk of Zadkiel’s trial lately, so he is not surprised when Aziraphale joins him in his cell. It hardly makes sense to have two in private occupancy when one is on his way out. And even in the short time allotted to them, it quickly becomes understood that the two of them are a unit. No, they will not join the communal wing-grooming (ugh). They groom themselves together, alone, after dark, with a great many unnecessary brushes of fingers against flesh, until there are hands in hair, curling around spreading legs, hands pulling bodies closer, wings forgotten, and Zadkiel held on top of Aziraphale like some precious thing to be worshipped. Aziraphale finds places to press into him, as if here is another garden gate to be opened, and here is the wonder within.

“Good lord,” Aziraphale whispers, as Zadkiel falls forward onto him, his body convulsing. “Oh, you…” And Aziraphale is gasping, his soft body jerking slightly, his arms strong around Zadkiel. “Zadkiel,” he whispers. “You are so lovely. Perfect, beautiful, clever thing. Thank you.”

Zadkiel feels exalted. Finally. He does not want to let him go.

But it’s Aziraphale’s trial that comes first. He will, as Zadkiel had predicted, remain an angel, but is banished to serve out the rest of his days on Earth, away from the host. He looks back at Zadkiel as they escort him from his cell.

“I love you, Aziraphale!” he shouts. “I’ll find you. Wherever you are, I’ll come to you.”

Aziraphale, who had looked sad, now breaks into tears. He hadn’t believed him.

When Zadkiel, days later, is banished to Hell, he thinks, well, good riddance. Now he can do whatever the fuck he wants, and guilt be damned. The Fall takes a while, maybe a full day? Hard to say, really. But after that, it’s straight up to Earth.

And Aziraphale.


	2. Crawly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crawly comes to Earth, changes his name, and makes an Arrangement.

It’s a bit of a gamble, this. Zadkiel is Crawly now, because he’d been some kind of snake thing when he’d landed. And that was really unfortunate, because of the whole serpent in the Garden of Eden thing, which had probably traumatized Aziraphale. It took him a good few minutes to figure out how to get his normal form back. How to hold it. And the eyes are sort of a lost cause. So he’s going to have to come clean about the whole demon thing and just take his chances. He tries out the new name, says it over and over again and hates it until he remembers the way Dagon had said it, pinching on the a, and that hadn’t sounded quite as bad, he tries that. Makes it darker, rounder. Crowley. Yeah, that would do. Nothing snakelike about that.

He washes himself, scents himself. It’s been a while since Aziraphale was last here, and there are humans everywhere. So he finds some who seem inclined to vanity to help him sculpt his flame-colored hair into something pretty. He’s not sure if _he’s_ pretty. His limbs feel too loose, his eyes too unnatural. But there is Aziraphale, and he’ll be properly damned if he’s going to walk away from him.

Aziraphale is living in a little hovel. Crowley skulks outside of it for a while before he realizes that’s creepy. He knocks on the side of it.

“Oh!” Aziraphale says. “Oh, it’s you.”

“That all right?” Crowley says. “Said I’d find you, didn’t I?”

“Oh, but…” Aziraphale is staring. It must be the eyes.

“Yeah,” Crowley says, carefully. “I’m a demon. You can call me Crowley.”

“A _demon_?”

“ ’s all right, though, yeah?” _Please let it be all right._ “I promised you didn’t I? And I came.”

“You did,” Aziraphale agrees. But he still looks uncertain. He reaches out a hand, wraps it around Crowley’s. He does that thing with his eyelashes again and Crowley feels weak. He lifts the hand up to his lips and kisses it. Aziraphale smiles, blushing. “And you said you loved me,” Aziraphale says. “But—”

“Yeah,” Crowley says, cutting him off. His voice comes out a whisper. There had never been anything like Aziraphale. Not for him. He couldn’t stand it if Aziraphale dismissed him, disbelieved him. “Yeah. I do.”

“Oh, _Crowley_ ,” Aziraphale says. Well, he didn’t miss a beat on the new name. For some reason, that’s what does it. Crowley lunges at him, like a strike, forgetting about the snake business he has to keep in check. But Aziraphale doesn’t seem to mind. He opens his mouth to Crowley’s, lets his tongue slide right in. He doesn’t complain that it’s forked.

“It’s a bit of a thrill,” Aziraphale says. “Being with a demon.” He wraps one of Crowley’s careful curls around his fingers, then trails them down his neck, nudging at the neck of his tunic. “But only because it’s _you_. Oh, this lovely long neck,” he kisses it. “It’s the same.” Crowley shudders, lets himself be inspected. 

He holds Crowley’s serpent gaze and smiles, a bit of mischief in the gaze as he undoes the belt around Crowley’s tunic. “I like the new eyes. Oh, I confess I do wonder what else is different. Will you let me see?” 

Crowley nods and there’s a kiss to his chest, as the tunic falls to the ground. Crowley can’t help a gasp as Aziraphale lays a hot, soft hand flat across his stomach. “Still so beautiful. So sweet.”

Aziraphale kneels and wraps his lips around Crowley. His mouth is hot and soft and his hands clasp Crowley to him with reverence. Why is it that this praise only makes Crowley want to be the one to worship?

When Aziraphale finishes, Crowley pulls him up and kisses him. He takes off his scratchy, thin, linen and leads him to the little pallet in the corner, made mostly of scratchy blankets and straw. He miracles it silk smooth and soft. “Lie down,” he says. “Let me take care of you, my angel.” Aziraphale quivers. He quivers after, too, in Crowley’s arms, as Crowley presses kiss after kiss to his head and shoulders. When Aziraphale finally stills and turns to look at him, Crowley wipes the sweat from his brow and pulls the soft blankets over them. “Better than what they gave you, yeah? Let me show you what you deserve. Let me give it to you.”

Aziraphale hesitates.

“You go too fast for me, Crowley,” he whispers. “I don’t know.”

The words stab through Crowley like ice. But then Aziraphale threads his fingers through Crowley’s and holds on. So Crowley does too. He looks at Aziraphale, lying beside him, eyes cast down, squeezing Crowley’s hand with his soft one.

“I love you,” Crowley tries again. “I thought—”

“Oh, _no_ , dear. It’s not that. I love you, too,” Aziraphale says. “It’s just that you’re a _demon_...and I’m still supposed to be an...an angel. Do you really think we can…??”

“Yes,” Crowley says. “Fuck ’em. Tired of ’em. Don’t care what they think. Want _you_. _Angel_.”

Aziraphale nods. “All right,” he says. “Well...I trust you. And I’m glad you found your way back to me.”

Crowley tries to hide his surprise.

“Yeah?” he says. OK, so he does a piss poor job of it. But it’s never been this easy before. Not with anything, anyone else.

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale says. “Well then...will you _stay_ with me? We could arrange to go about together? It would be so nice, wouldn’t it? To be together and be free?” Then Aziraphale blushes, gaze flitting down and away. Because they’re not free, and they’ve avoided thinking of it until now. Crowley reaches out and touches his face, turning it back to his. He tries to tell him it’s OK, that of course he’ll stay, but nothing comes out.

“Lovely thing,” Aziraphale says. “Please?”

“Ngk. Yeah, yeah...of course. Arrangement. Special arrangement.”

Aziraphale kisses him. “It will feel so good,” he says. “Like having a home.”

_Yeah,_ Crowley thinks. _Home._ What must Heaven have been like for Aziraphale, a principality, created for duty and punished for doing it? So he doesn’t say it to Aziraphale, but he promises himself that Aziraphale has had enough suffering, and he will make sure that the angel never wants for anything else.

And for a few thousand years, Aziraphale doesn’t.


	3. Ashtoreth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley keeps Aziraphale in the dark about something important (antichrist) as he tries out a couple of human careers (nominally, anyway). If you've seen the film, this is the sad part, but I promise my version has a happy ending.

It’s always worth it, whatever it takes, to hear Aziraphale tell him how much he loves him, how special he is, how clever, how lovely, how perfect, how good and nice and kind and delightful. Crowley basks in it.

So, sometimes, there are things he doesn’t do. Things he probably ought to, as a demon, because he doesn’t like the idea of how Aziraphale might react. And most of the time, those are things he doesn’t want to do anyway. But he can’t just not do _anything_ demonic.

Like when he gets an assignment. There’s no getting out of that. Hell knows about his Arrangement with an angel. It’s not like it’s a secret. He’d bounced out of there as soon as he could, with Aziraphale’s name sweet on his tongue. Hell didn’t care. As far as they were concerned, he was corrupting an angel. (As far as Heaven was concerned, Aziraphale was a lost cause, but they didn’t speak of that. It made Aziraphale cry; it made Crowley seethe.) Hell was fine as long as he did what he was asked.

So, yeah. There’s no getting out of that. So that means, too, that there are things he just doesn’t say. Not to Aziraphale.

Things. Like, why, exactly, he needs some holy water ( _No, angel, I’m not planning to leave you. It’s nothing like that_ ). Things like, why exactly Hell gave him a commendation in 1500. (OK, sure, it was for the plague and the Spanish Inquisition, all right? But you try explaining that to an angel and staying in his good graces. Especially when said angel knows exactly where you were the whole time and it was nowhere near the whole debacle.)

Things like why, exactly, you found yourself standing in a graveyard one summer night in 2008, with two of the most disgusting Dukes of Hell. Or the fact that it happened at all.

And things like why you came home the next morning with a baby.

* * *

It’s easy enough to come up with a cover story. Not that Crowley’s a big fan of lying to the angel. He hates it. But sometimes it’s for the best. You can’t exactly say, “Oh, hello, just your occult lover here, angel, bringing the antichrist, Great Beast, Destroyer of All Worlds. _Nothing to worry about_.” Aziraphale would run from him. And he’d be right to. This kid, if he did what he was supposed to, would tear them apart and destroy the only place they’d been happy. So Crowley makes a plan.

The next day, Aziraphale has Deirdre and her husband Arthur over for tea. Crowley doesn’t usually talk to them, but today he saunters in, leaning against the wall as he drains a teacup, mostly for something to do. He winks at Aziraphale and casually brings up his work as a solicitor for an adoption agency.

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale says, eagerly, playing along just as they’d discussed. “Crowley was just mentioning to me this morning that he’d had to pick up a new baby.”

“Needs a home,” Crowley says, showing his teeth. He hopes it’s a friendly display. Deirdre clutches at Arthur’s arm. _Jackpot._

As for the rest, well. He sticks to the paperwork so it’ll be nice and neat and legal for the Youngs. He lets Aziraphale handle the hand-off. He’s let him do as much as possible of the actual baby stuff; he’s an angel after all. That’s got to be closer to counteracting the literal spawn of Satan than a demon. Besides, diapers are a nightmare.

* * *

The problem comes later. Hell keep asking after the boy, and there’s not a lot Crowley can say.

“Has he killed anyone yet?” asks Ligur, when Crowley reports to Hell.

How is Crowley supposed to know? _I mean, probably not, right?_ he thinks. _Most human children don’t kill anyone by the time they’re—shit, eight? Eight years old? Already._

“Ah, not yet,” Crowley says. “But there’s more to evil than just killing people, eh?”

“I suppose,” Ligur says, dubiously. “But it’s fun.”

 _Fun_ , Crowley thinks. _What would Ligur know about fun?_

* * *

“You know what might be fun?” Crowley asks that night.

“What’s that?” Aziraphale says. He rolls over to face Crowley. They’ve just made love, and Aziraphale looks indulgent, eager. He’d be up for another go, Crowley realizes, regretfully. He should have waited to bring this up. But now…

“You remember, ah, Deirdre Young? Her son? The one—”

“The one you helped her with? Of course, you absolute darling.” Aziraphale reaches out, pulls Crowley closer. “Oh, you _claim_ to be a demon, but I don’t know…” he kisses Crowley behind the ear. “Refresh my memory. Show me just how sinful you can be.”

 _Shit._ Crowley does not tell Aziraphale no. It’s not that he wants to and he’s holding back. It’s just not done. He lets Aziraphale kiss him, pull him closer. He reaches a hand down to wrap around him, to hold them together.

“Is that...enough for you now, angel? Greedy, perfect thing, can’t get enough of me, can you?” Crowley strokes harder, faster. Aziraphale’s pelvis shifts against him, and Crowley’s hips start to move too. He closes his mouth on Aziraphale’s shoulder and sucks hard until he gasps. (If it leaves a mark, Crowley will heal it later. Aziraphale can, of course, but Crowley will insist.) “Can you?”

“No, no, I can’t get enough of you,” Aziraphale gasps. “You are the best, the most, the...oh, Crowley, _Crowley_.”

After, Crowley pulls him closer, holds him long enough to be sure they’re really done this time, and tries again.

“So, ah.”

“Oh, yes. You were saying something about the Youngs?”

“Yeah, ah, have you seen him—them for a while now?” Crowley slides his fingers into Aziraphale’s soft hair and begins to stroke. His hair is like the filaments Crowley’d used to make the stars. “We ought to, ah, pay them a visit, yeah? See how the kid’s getting on.”

“It’s been some time. But, oh, Crowley. I was asked to...to establish a residence in Tadfield. I was hoping to talk with you about it when you returned from Hell. But, well, your hair, in that little bun, and your leather _trousers_. Oh, and the _tortoiseshell_ glasses. Absolutely scrumptious. Did you get them for Hell? You need to wear them for _me_ , my dear.”

“Yes, yes,” Crowley says, quickly, heading him off, even as his body starts to respond again already. Because, unfortunately, they really do have to get this done. “Wear it all for you again sometime.”

“Oh, please do.”

“So, we’re going to Tadfield. Did they say why?”

“Oh, my dear! You’ll come! I was hoping you’d say that.”

Crowley gives him a snuggle.

Aziraphale sighs happily. “You are simply wonderful,” he whispers.

Crowley closes his eyes. If he does this right, he reminds himself, he can keep this. If he does this right, they’ll both be safe and together forever. Or at least for a little longer.

“Did they say why?” he repeats, his voice a rough whisper.

“Oh, no. They don’t ever tell me why. Only that I’m to keep an eye on the local children. So, I suppose we will see Adam.”

* * *

They do see Adam. Aziraphale takes a position teaching literature at the secondary school there, so even if he can’t be in his bookshop, surrounded by his precious collection at all times, he can at least be surrounded by books and spread his love for them to others. Crowley tries to ask him for information about the boy, to offer suggestions, things he might do to try to sway Adam, to make sure he turns out normal. _Human_ normal.

Crowley tries to get closer, tries to get included in more in the village, but it feels, sometimes, like there are just places where they don’t go. Like Deirdre Young’s knitting circle. Or Arthur Young’s hunting group. No one thinks to invite them, and when Crowley prods Aziraphale about knitting, he says, “Why on earth would I go to a knitting circle? I can’t even knit! No, I have my book club and that is more than sufficient.” He rolls his eyes when Crowley says that maybe _he’ll_ go himself.

“They think you’re a solicitor! Solicitors don’t knit! And as for hunting... _well_ , my dear. Neither of us is exactly a man’s man.”

“Well, neither of us is a _man_.”

“You know what I mean.”

Crowley frowns, because he’s pretty sure none of these things are hard and fast rules, but there’s no arguing with Aziraphale when it comes to what’s needed to fit in. Neither of them have ever fit in, really. It bothers Aziraphale, but Crowley doesn’t mind it so much. He can’t really see himself with a rifle or a set of knitting...instruments (?) anyway.

The next day, the science teacher puts in her resignation and moves to Majorca after receiving an unexpected windfall in the form of an inheritance from a mysterious, forgotten relative. Fortunately, Ashtoreth Crowley, Mr. Fell’s lovely sister-in-law, an experienced biology teacher (particular focus on botany and herpetology), just happens to be visiting.

She has Adam Young in her tutor group, and after a very successful parent-teacher meeting, she is promptly invited to join both the knitting circle and the hunting group, though she does not know how to knit or hunt.

“How’s that, angel?” she asks Aziraphale, that night, taking off her sunglasses to wink at him.

“Everyone _loves_ you,” Aziraphale says, kissing her. “Especially me.”

And Adam Young is a perfectly normal boy. His eighteenth year comes and goes. Crowley gives a deep sigh of relief. It’s all over now, he thinks.

He should have thought harder.

* * *

The first indication that something is very wrong, something Crowley should have realized sooner, was that Adam’s hellhound had turned into a normal, middle-sized Jack Russell terrier. Crowley thinks of this only in retrospect after the second indication comes in the form of a phone call as he and Aziraphale pack their bags to head back to London. Crowley picks up his mobile knowing it’s Hell, even though the phone only shows _Unknown Number_. The only number that remains unknown to Crowley’s iPhone is Hell’s.

“Hello?”

“What the Heaven is going on? What have you done?”

“Hastur...hey,” Crowley says, shakily. “Not following you. How do you mean?”

“They can’t find the boy! There’s no traces of him anywhere. He’s fully human now. _What have you done?_ ”

“Oh, I—”

“You’re dead meat. You and your _Aziraphale_. Don’t think we don’t have a line to Heaven. They won’t like it any more than we do.”

“No, wait—”

The line goes dead.

“Darling?” Aziraphale’s voice, for the first time Crowley can recall, only serves to inflame rather than soothe.

Crowley turns to him. He will have to do this very carefully.

“Darling, who—?”

“We need to go. _Now_.”

Aziraphale takes a step back, away from him. “We can just miracle everything into the car, then?” he says, shakily. Crowley shakes his head.

“No,” he says. “Angel, we have to go. Away from here. Away from Earth. Alpha Centauri, maybe. It’s...it’s a nice one.”

He’s not reining it in like he should, he’s stalking toward Aziraphale, so maybe he shouldn’t be surprised when Aziraphale shakes his head, when Aziraphale backs away.

“No,” Aziraphale says softly. “I won’t leave Earth. Tell me what’s going on. I can fix it, whatever it is. But I can’t abandon my station!”

“You can’t fix this, Aziraphale! Listen to me. They’re going to destroy us, destroy the Earth, destroy everything!”

“But _why_?” Aziraphale looks confused but calm, as if Crowley’s the one being unreasonable. It makes Crowley feel that much more out of control. He _tries_. For Aziraphale.

“Adam Young,” he says. “He’s...he _was_ the antichrist. He’s not anymore. And the forces of Hell and Heaven think it was my fault. Our fault.”

Aziraphale gasps. “And it _is_. Oh, it is, isn’t it?” His face twists, contorting with an understanding he’d never asked for. “That’s what _all_ of this—oh, and I thought you cared about them. I thought you came to Tadfield to be with _me_. And—”

“Aziraphale, I do—I did.”

“ _No_ ,” Aziraphale says, and the word sounds sour from his sweet mouth. “You _used_ me. You lied to me. And now—oh, I’ll have to—to go back to Heaven, to that awful prison. And…and…oh, my gracious.” His eyes look flat, cold, unyielding. “How long have you known? Did you always know this would happen?”

“What? No. It’s not like—Just. Listen. Come with me, angel, and we’ll—”

“ _No!_ I’ll—I’ll just get the bus and send for my things. I’m sure if I can just get to the shop, I can _speak_ with Gabriel, I can make him see,” Aziraphale mutters as he turns and stalks away, his shoulders hunching in on themselves, his hands wringing. _They’ll use Hellfire on him. No, no, no, no._ Crowley lunges at him, grabs his shoulders, turns him around and pushes him against the wall, holding him there. Crowley’s not panicking; because he can’t, he won’t. Because Aziraphale will come with him, and it will all be fine.

“Angel—look, I’m sorry. Work with me. I’m apologizing here. Good, yes? Now, let’s get in the car. We’ll talk on the drive, all right. I can get us away safe.”

Aziraphale fidgets, as if he wants to pull away, but there’s no real resistance in him.

“Crowley, you’re not listening to me--you’re being ridiculous.”

“Come _on_. Lots of spare planets up there. No one would even notice us.”

“You can’t leave the Earth. There’s nowhere else to go. I’ve had...I’ve had enough of you and—” There’s a quaver in his voice that Crowley put there, and he’s about to shake apart himself, and then Aziraphale’s hands are on his arms, pushing him away, and he’s _strong_ , Crowley had known, but this almost sends him into the wall opposite, and he staggers upright and closes his hands over Aziraphale’s again, begging, interrupting him, because he can’t hear what Aziraphale is saying. It’s not happening. It can’t be. Aziraphale can’t have had enough, not now, not like this, not when Crowley never would.

“Aziraphale—please, I love you. I do. Just—”

“Don’t talk to me about love. Tempter. Demon. Oh, I should have _known_. I should smite you. I _will_ smite you, if I ever see you again and this very instant, if you don’t _unhand me now_.”

His eyes blaze. And Crowley—who had never seen him with the flaming sword he was created to wield—lets go.


	4. Interlude: Aziraphale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We hear from Aziraphale, for a change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: mention of suicide.

Aziraphale staggers out of their house in a daze. The house they’ve shared here for years. And only one of many places they’ve lived together. Aziraphale and Crowley. A demon.

Oh, but he hadn’t _thought_ of him that way. He’d thought of him as Crowley, who he’d met before he was Crowley; he’d thought of him as his first experience of the way love could light you up. The first time love had touched him, it had been Zadkiel’s. Oh, of course Aziraphale felt _Her_ love, too. But the only love he’d felt from anyone else in Heaven had been Zadkiel’s. He had never told Crowley, but sometimes he thought it had been _that_ love that had stopped him from falling. It had certainly been that love that had stopped him from raging at Her, from giving up hope.

So when Zadkiel had returned to him as _not_ Zadkiel, as a demon, Aziraphale hadn’t cared about the differences. Whatever they were, he’d known he would learn to love them because he loved the being already, the essence of him, changed or not.

But now he wonders if he’s been naive, simply refusing to see the truth. If Crowley has only been hiding the unsavory parts of himself, the way he’d tried to hide his snake form, not to protect Aziraphale, but to keep himself from being judged. He’d _lied_ to Aziraphale. In general, they don’t discuss their jobs between them; it’s something of a sore spot, and one of very few. But Crowley has never lied to him before this, not that he knows of. And this, this lie, well, it’s a big one, a dangerous one.

Aziraphale doesn’t get far. Two archangels grab his arms at the end of the block, before he even reaches the bus station. Behind him, he can hear Crowley shouting. Aziraphale looks back and sees a demon behind Crowley, raising some sort of curved piece of metal over his head. He can’t stop himself then from pulling against them, from shouting out. He’s no match against two archangels. They only gag him; and as if realizing that it might not be wise to underestimate his warrior’s strength, two other angels appear from nowhere and tie his hands. They surround him, forcing him along. He doesn’t see what happens to Crowley. His heart hurts at the thought of him. He’d lied to Aziraphale—perhaps he’d lied all along, just to use Aziraphale to thwart the Great Plan. But Aziraphale cannot wish him harm. And Hell is not merciful.

* * *

Heaven is. At least, somewhat.

“You didn’t know,” Gabriel says. “We should have protected you better. We all knew you were fraternizing. Knew you couldn’t hold your own. Perhaps we should have explained things to you more often. This is on us. Well, sort of.”

Aziraphale is punished, but only lightly. He’s given a new and unpleasant assignment in which he is to review transcripts of human prayers on those awful electronic tablets. The other angels assigned to this task resent his joining them. They know what he’s done. They know who he has loved. Or rather, they know that it was a demon. Aziraphale is lonely and tired, and just as terrible with electronics as he had been on Earth. So sometimes he reads instead, sneaking books from the old prison library where no one goes anymore, and forcing down memories of a radiant archangel’s arms encircling him, looking at him as if he were a real angel too. A look Aziraphale had not had to do without for over a thousand years after Crowley had followed him to Earth. He’d been the only being ever to look at him that way. Perhaps that had been why Crowley had tried so hard to save the Earth, the place where they could be together. Oh, of _course_ it was why. Aziraphale had been so preoccupied with Crowley’s lies that he hadn’t stopped to think of what would have happened if he hadn’t done any of it. It’s down to Crowley, after all, that the Earth still exists, whether they’re there together or not, and that’s good. It makes Aziraphale hopeful for humanity at least. He feels nothing but pain when he thinks of himself, of his future alone in Heaven, of Crowley’s future in Hell, so he tries not to think at all.

Early in his new residency in Heaven, he works up the courage to ask Uriel if she knows what happened to Crowley. She tells him he was tried, sentenced. That she doesn’t know anything beyond that, but that Hell is very fond of eternity as a duration for its punishments.

* * *

It’s Uriel who finds him again, a long while later. There has been a flutter among the archangels recently, and she approaches him at his desk, ignoring the dusty book he’d had in his hands instead of the glossy tablet, sitting neglected beside it. She leads him away from the others before she speaks.

“I didn’t want you to hear it from the others, not since you asked me directly some time ago. Your demon has been destroyed. Or rather, he’s destroyed himself. We didn’t know demons could make holy water, but I suppose he was around you long enough that he learned how and put himself out of his misery.”

Aziraphale lets out a cry and sinks to his knees. He’d done this. He’d given Crowley a suicide pill, then given him a reason to use it, and now...

“We are always informed when one of original archangelic stock has been destroyed. We only just found out, and the news will be all over Heaven soon, thanks to your notoriety,” Uriel adds.

But Aziraphale barely hears her.

“Back to your desk,” she says.

He doesn’t move. She sighs and walks away. It’s a long time before he stands up, makes his way back, and stares, unseeing, at the pages of the book before him. _Crowley, Crowley._ The only one who’d ever loved Aziraphale, and this was what it had done to him. Aziraphale thinks of him, the glint in his eye, the way his body felt when they pressed into each other. The way he walked, the roughness in his voice that hadn’t been there when he was Zadkiel, the sense, direct and immediate, of his love, flashing and loud and insistent and unmistakable. Oh, he loved Crowley, he had. Just as he was. He nearly chokes with it, the feeling crashing into him as if Crowley is here now, as if he’d been away a long time and had returned. He lets out an audible sob. It really feels as if he might reach out now and touch him.

“You’d better get it together,” says the angel in the next cubicle. “I know you fraternized with that dead demon, but that’s over now. You have duties.”

Aziraphale blanches, looks down at his tablet. For a moment, he thinks he’s gone mad with grief. Then his mouth falls open, and he lets out a quiet, “Oh!” and he’s shaking, choked up all over again, this time with relief and joy, and instead of dull despair, a new, and bubbling uncertainty.


	5. Crowley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We find out what Crowley did in Hell and learn what Aziraphale saw when he looked down at his tablet.

Crowley wakes up in Hell, in a room with a glass panel, behind which thousands of demons are watching him, eagerly.

“Aziraphale—what have they done to him?” he snaps.

“Is that all you care about?” says Ligur. “Really? We’ve got you down here where you belong, you can’t escape, and all you can think about is your pathetic _angel_?”

“Angel, angel, angel,” says Dagon. “That’s all we’ve ever really heard from you.”

Crowley sneers. “So, what’s it going to be, then?” he says. “An eternity in the deepest pit?”

Beelzebub looks at Dagon and nods.

“Exactly,” Hastur growls. He and Ligur grab Crowley’s arms and drag him away.

* * *

It has been a long time.

Crowley doesn’t know how long it’s been. Too long. Sometimes, he turns back into his snake form, which he’d all but abandoned in his time on Earth. It’s easier to pass the time that way. He doesn’t feel it so much.

There’s nothing to see in the pit. Nothing to hear. There’s no way to get out. Sometimes the others come in to taunt and torture, but honestly it’s nothing too graphic. Until one day, when Ligur looks in to see how Crowley is getting on, and Crowley has an idea. Why not use his one advantage: his knowledge of the holy? Or rather, their knowledge of his knowledge of the holy.

He asks them for a drink of water. He figures they’ll probably say no. It doesn’t matter. What matters is getting them to notice that he wanted it. Obviously, a demon doesn’t _need_ to drink water.

Anyway, there is water. It’s damp everywhere in Hell. Crowley just has to devise a way to collect the dampness, enough of it to mix with some of the grime and a few red hairs.

Then he has to make himself very, very small.

* * *

“He can’t have blessed it,” Ligur says.

“He must have,” Beelzebub says. She snaps her fingers to clear up the mess.

“He was never one of us,” Hastur says.

Crowley slithers up and away.

* * *

It’s not easy to navigate Heaven, but not hard to find Aziraphale once he’s gotten there. Crowley has always been able to sense him, to find him anywhere. Aziraphale, he’s relieved to see, isn’t in a cell somewhere. He’s sitting stiffly in a small white cubicle, in the corner. He’s dressed all in white, leaning over a weathered-looking book. At his right hand, there’s an electronic tablet, which looks somewhat neglected.

Crowley curls around the tablet and hesitates. He’s not sure how to reveal himself without startling Aziraphale, and drawing attention. He studies what he can see of Aziraphale’s face from this angle. He looks sad, careworn. As he reaches out to turn a page, a tear drips from his face. He sighs—no, sobs—and flicks another page.

“You’d better get it together,” says the angel in the next cubicle. “I know you fraternized with that demon, but that’s over now. You have duties.”

Aziraphale huffs haughtily. He turns his head to look at the tablet, and Crowley sees his face, which looks completely heartbroken, just as Aziraphale sees him. Aziraphale’s mouth opens. Crowley shakes his head and pushes forward, letting his head brush Aziraphale’s hand. “Oh!” Aziraphale says. His face breaks into a shaky smile, and he lifts Crowley, _cradles_ him, holds him to his soft, beloved cheek, then tucks him inside his suit. Crowley had hoped they’d have a moment to talk about the plan, because he has one of those, and this is _not_ it, but then Aziraphale stands up and says to the horrible, rude angel, “Excuse me. I—I think I rather need to collect myself.”

“See that you do,” says the angel. “Oh! Something about you smells...evil.”

“Yes, well, that’s all as expected, then, isn’t it?” Aziraphale snaps.

 _Fraternized_ , Crowley thinks, wryly. He burrows against Aziraphale’s downy chest, thinking vaguely of his pink nipples, though this is really not the time.

Aziraphale comes to a stop and draws him out rather abruptly. He recognizes the space. The library in the prison where they’d met. There are considerably more books now, and it seems to be completely empty.

“Hey, angel,” Crowley hisses.

“Oh, _Crowley_ , oh, they said you were gone. They said you’d taken holy water; I thought I—I didn’t know how I could ever...how I could…”

“I’m getting you out of here,” Crowley hisses, twining himself around Aziraphale’s hand. “Will you come?”

“Oh, but you lied to me, Crowley. You manipulated me.”

“I’m sssorry. Maybe I should have told you. But I thought I could fixsss it. Keep you safe. Keep you with me. I thought we could get around it and I wouldn’t have to worry you; that you wouldn’t have to get in trouble if you didn’t know. You had enough to be going on with.”

Aziraphale presses his lips together and tilts his head to the side. He looks at Crowley on his hand and reaches out with the other one. He traces the coiled line of him all the way to the end of his tail. Then he lifts his hand and presses Crowley to his lips.

“You infernal thing,” he whispers. Crowley darts his tongue out and touches the tips of it to Aziraphale’s nose, making him laugh. “All right. What do we need to do?”

* * *

When it is done, they lie together in a room at the Ritz and talk and puzzle it out. Crowley had made himself a huge serpent and an even larger spectacle: he had breathed hellfire at Aziraphale like a dragon. Aziraphale had trusted him with that, not to get too close, to only make it _look_ like he’d been incinerated. Crowley felt his heart lifting as the fire flew through him, as Aziraphale waited for it to finish, not even flinching. He knew, even now, that Crowley wouldn’t hurt him.

While the other angels were distracted and moralizing (“ _Oh, my gracious.” “I suppose that’s what comes of fraternizing with demons. Nothing to grieve after all.” “How did the demon get in here?” “They say he has special powers.”_ ), they’d simply walked out. Well, Aziraphale had. Crowley had made himself small enough again to fit in his pocket, had run his scales over and over Aziraphale’s soft hand, letting Aziraphale squeeze him lightly in turn. He knew Aziraphale wouldn’t hurt him.

They reached the entrance level quickly enough that no one there had heard what had happened, so they didn’t find it odd to see Aziraphale. The archangels were busy elsewhere, so none of them was there to notice the prohibited direction in which he was headed.

“They’ve probably worked it out by now,” Aziraphale says, as they lie in bed together. He nestles his posterior more snugly over Crowley’s hips. “That neither of us is dead.”

“Yeah, they might have worked out that much,” Crowley says. “But they won’t know _what we are_. We’re free. You’re immune to hellfire and I’m immune to holy water.”

“But we’re—” Crowley presses one hand over Aziraphale’s mouth.

“Don’t say it,” he whispers. “Not out loud, not ever.” He lets his hand drift lower, lifting Aziraphale’s shirt, nuzzling him and tugging impatiently at his belt until Aziraphale laughs and miracles his trousers away.

“I’m sorry I didn’t trust you,” Aziraphale says.

“I know.”

Crowley shudders as he presses against him, realizing that Aziraphale’s miracle has done more than simply remove his trousers.

“Ngk. Angel?”

“My dearest, you are everything to me, my sun and stars. You illuminate my life. If you’re asking what I think you are...I don’t see how I could be any more obvious.”

“Yeah, right. OK.” Crowley groans. _Sun and stars. Illuminate. Me._ But Aziraphale is the one who glows. Crowley rests a hand on Aziraphale’s hip, stroking up his side, listening to the hitch in his breath as he spreads him open and pushes in. He gasps at the pleasure of it. Something flares in his chest.

“Oh, _Crowley_ ,” Aziraphale breathes, like Crowley has shown him something wonderful.

“Good?” Crowley strokes down Aziraphale’s side again, holding his own body still against Aziraphale’s quivers. “You’re so...love you so much.”

“Of course it’s good, darling. You’re always good. Oh, I missed you so much,” Aziraphale says. “I do love you so. I thought I’d done something unforgivable, and worse than that, I thought you wouldn’t even be around to forgive me, if you’d wanted to. You saved the world, you know? And I never told you how glad I am. And now you’ve saved me too.”

“ _We_ saved the world. And you saved _me_ ,” Crowley says. He bends forward to kiss his shoulder.

“Oh, come now, Crowley. That’s something of a stretch. I got you out of _Heaven_ alive, but you could have done that yourself, I’m sure. You wily thing.” Aziraphale gives a wiggle that makes Crowley’s breath catch, makes him fall forward, pressing his face into Aziraphale’s hair.

He thinks of the days, long ago, before he’d met Aziraphale. He’d been an archangel then, but had still felt alone and forgotten. Then Aziraphale had happened, had made his chest feel full with the light of the sun. The whole time they’d been together, he had never felt alone or worthless again. And then, he’d been sent to the pit, which could have completely destroyed him: if he’d stayed there much longer, no one in Hell would have thought of him, remembered him at all. (Even now, he’s not sure yet what year it is.) He’d nearly given up. But all he’d had to do was think of Aziraphale, of getting back to him, and that feeling was gone.

How wonderful it had been to see that he’d been right. _Aziraphale_ had not forgotten him. Whatever he’d said when they fought, he hadn’t wanted to forget Crowley. And now, still, he exalts him yet again. “That’s not what I mean,” Crowley says. “You saved me for real, angel. You saved me from myself, saved me from eternity.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says. “Crowley, _Crowley_ , darling, will you please just fuck me?”

Crowley was very happy, as always, to oblige.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [madeofmydreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/madeofmydreams) for beta reading.


End file.
